


I know you’re bleeding, but you’ll be okay (Hold onto your heart, you’ll keep it safe)

by Veriatas



Series: What the Water Gave Me (Selkie'verse) [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, Minor Character Death, Selkie!Bruce Wayne, Selkies, Tim Drake Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27057007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veriatas/pseuds/Veriatas
Summary: His parents were late coming home from the airport. Very late.Why hadn't they texted him to let him know?Mother hates being late. She'll be in such a bad mood when she gets home.What's taking them so long?
Relationships: Jack Drake & Janet Drake & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: What the Water Gave Me (Selkie'verse) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781317
Comments: 22
Kudos: 369





	I know you’re bleeding, but you’ll be okay (Hold onto your heart, you’ll keep it safe)

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you to [Bumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumpkin) for their help, and another thanks to Aque and Oceans on the Capes and Coffee discord for the brainstorming help!
> 
> Title from Florence and the Machine.

After spending the better part of the last several months living with the Waynes, the Drake’s beachfront mansion feels big, empty, and very quiet. The late afternoon sunlight slanted in through the curtains, casting a golden glow across rarely-used furniture, adding an artificial warmth to the otherwise sterile house. Tim checked his watch, impatiently waiting for his parents arrival. The house would feel less lonely once they got here. He drifted from room to room, straightening paintings, rearranging cushions, shifting vases _just so_ , in an effort to make the mansion look as pristine as possible. His parents would be tired when they got back from their trip and he didn’t want them to be bothered by the state of the house. It needed to be _perfect_.

Tim didn’t want them to be bothered by him, either. To that end, he had put away the loose, comfortable clothing he favoured while at the Waynes’ house, and was dressed in pressed slacks and a neat polo shirt. He’d taken the bus into Gotham proper to get a haircut, too. His hair had been getting longer, and Mother hated when his hair looked messy. The return to his tidy, shorter hair and formal clothing felt strange to him. Every time he walked past a mirror he felt a jolt of surprise. His internal self-image no longer aligned with reality, and the misalignment unsettled him.

It’s only for a few weeks, he reassured himself. They’re only staying for a few weeks. Immediately, he felt guilty. His parents were here so rarely, he shouldn’t be wishing his time with them away, no matter how much easier he breathed when they were gone. 

Tim sat down on one of the uncomfortable white couches. He checked his watch again. The minutes drifted past him, stretching out languidly until they felt like hours. They’re late. Mother hates being late. She’ll be irritated when she arrives at the house. He fidgeted with the edge of his shirt before he caught himself. Mother hated it when he fidgeted, and she would already be irritated when she arrived, and he didn’t want to annoy her further. 

He checked his watch again, despite knowing that barely any time had passed. Why hadn’t they texted him, if they were going to be this late? Then again, their precise arrival time didn’t matter. None of their plans would change regardless of when they arrived. Dinner wouldn’t be until later, so none of the food would go cold or be overcooked. And only Tim and the workers were here, there wasn’t anyone important waiting on their arrival. There was no need to text.

Time continued to creep along, unhurried and lazy in its pace. Tim caught himself fidgeting four more times in ten minutes. Just as he was trying to decide whether it would be worth it to bother them by texting, he heard tires crunch over the driveway and leapt to his feet. His chest a thrumming bundle of joy and anxiety, he quickly fixed the cushions where he’d been sitting and straightened his clothes, checking that his hair was still tidy in a mirror he strode past. He didn’t run to the door. That would be undignified and ill-fitting for a child in his position. 

The doorbell rang out through the house. Tim’s steps slowed as he reached the foyer. Why would the doorbell ring? His parents should have the keys. None of the workers had come forward to answer the door, and he was keeping them waiting, so he quickly moved across the room and fumbled with the locks, and pulled the door open.

He blinked in shock, because the people at his door weren’t his parents. Two neatly dressed women stand outside with a uniformed officer behind them, and Tim can feel his heart sink. He knows one of these women; he’s seen her here and there at galas and other events, accompanying Kate Kane. Her name is Renee Montoya, and she’s a detective at the GCPD. Mother and Father have always told Tim that it’s important to remember details about the people he interacts with at events. Forgetting basic details like names and employment is just rude.

“Timothy Drake, right? I’m Detective Renee Montoya of the GCPD, and this is Officer David Moore and Ms Lily Blake from Child Protective Services. Can we come in, please?” 

“It’s Tim,” he replied automatically, numbly stepping back from the doorway and leading them to the public sitting room with it’s uncomfortable white couches. He’s sure he knows what they’re here to say, but all of his thoughts have disappeared behind fog to leave him operating on auto-pilot. He wordlessly perches on the edge of a couch and stares at them.

Montoya takes a breath from where she’s sitting on the couch, solemn expression on her face. Tim can’t stop staring at her, hoping that he’s wrong. He wants to be wrong. But he doesn’t think he is.

“I’m sorry, Tim, but I have bad news to share with you. Your parents were killed in a car crash on their way home from the airport.”

* * *

Bruce hummed lightly along to the music playing through his car radio. He’d turned it up loud, just so he could hear it over the wind rushing past his convertible. This car always made him grin, the memory of Jason’s laughter in his ears, when the boy had found out that Bruce Wayne, secret selkie, owned a car called a _Plymouth Barracuda_. Pup had laughed so hard he’d fallen off a chair, and it had made Bruce unreasonably fond of this car in particular.

It was the end of the working day, and the sun was low in the sky, casting warmth across his skin. The wind ruffled through his hair as he turned towards the ocean, towards home. The sight of the ocean stretching across the horizon made him grin even wider. Already, he could feel it. The chill of the water, the warmth of the sun, Dick and Jason rushing past him through the waves. Maybe even Alfred would join them. Man, he couldn’t wait to get out of his suit and into the water.

His grin dimmed as he came closer to Tim’s house. The boy had gone back to his house this morning, claiming he needed to make sure the house was ready for when his parents returned. Bruce didn’t think that should be Tim’s job, since he was a _child_ , but regardless. Tim had gone back to his house.

Bruce’s smile disappeared entirely as he came in sight of the Drake’s mansion. There were cars on the driveway, but not the ones he would have expected. There was a plain sedan, and worryingly, a police car. That did not spell good news. 

Impulsively, Bruce turned into the Drake’s driveway and parked. Perhaps he was being overcautious, or nosy, but he wanted to make sure Tim was okay.

He stepped out of the car and walked to the Drake’s front door. Inside, he could hear indistinct voices, Tim’s not among them. He pressed the doorbell and the voices cut off. He waited. Footsteps gradually got louder, until the door swung open, and Bruce was surprised to see Renee Montoya looking at him.

“Bruce, hello. What are you doing here?” Renee’s dark, serious eyes met his gaze evenly.

“Renee. Or, I suppose it would be Detective Montoya at the moment,” he smiled at her, but she didn’t return it. He dropped the expression. “Look. I know I’m probably being nosy, but I saw the police car out front and wanted to check on Tim. I know his parents were due back today...” His heart sank at the expression on her face.

“Mr and Mrs Drake were killed in a crash on their way home from the airport today. How do you know Tim?”

Bruce closed his eyes, and swore softly, and grieved. He hadn’t known Jack or Janet well, and he’d never much liked them, but they were Tim’s parents. He must be devastated. “He’s Jason’s, best friend. In fact, he’s been basically living at my house since his parents last left. I gave him an open invitation to stay as long as he pleased, since I was worried about him alone in this big empty house.” Renee winced. Clearly, she didn’t like that he had been left alone either. “I know it isn’t my place, but do you think I could come in and see him? It might do him good to see a familiar face.”

Renee’s gaze sharpened, and a thoughtful expression came onto her face. “You’re still a registered foster parent, right? You kept up your status even after adopting Jason?” Bruce nodded. “You might be able to help us, actually. Kid’s got no living relatives, and it’d be a hell of a lot better for him to be placed with someone he knows than with people he’s never met.” 

He winced at the thought of Tim, small and grieving, being pulled away from all he’d ever known and being made to stay with strangers. “Of course I’d take him in. My boys love him, and he’s such a good kid.”

Renee’s shoulders relaxed slightly, a certain tenseness leaving her frame. “Well, come in and talk to Miss Blake then. We’ll get it sorted out. And I think Tim will be glad to see you, I’m pretty sure he’s in shock at the moment. He hasn’t spoken at all since we told him.” She turned and stepped back from the door, letting Bruce into the mansion, and then strode down the hallway. Bruce followed. 

His expression became grimmer as she lead him through the house. The furniture was immaculate, and there wasn’t a single speck of dust on anything. It looked as if no-one had ever lived here at all. Had Tim really lived here for months at a time, all by himself, before he met the Waynes? There wasn’t a single sign of him or his personality in this house. There weren’t any of his photos on the walls. Nor, in fact, were there any photos of Tim on the walls. Just bland artwork and archeological finds.

Renee finally lead him into a living room, and Bruce finally got to see Tim. The kid is sitting on a pristine white couch, eyes staring into the distance. The social worker - did Renee call her Ms. Blake? - is talking to Tim, but he’s not responding, nor is he even looking at her. He’s so far gone into his head that he hasn’t even noticed Bruce entering the room.

“Tim?” Bruce called softly. Tim doesn’t respond. Bruce called him again, more strongly, and this time his eyes snapped up to meet Bruce’s. For a moment, he just stared, eyes wide and startled. Then he burst into tears and flung himself off the couch, racing across the room and into Bruce’s arms. Bruce wrapped him up in a tight embrace, then lifted him gently, so that Tim could rest his head against Bruce’s shoulder. Gods, he’s so light, so small. Too small for the sobs wracking his slim frame, too small for the weight of the grief that’s just come crashing down on him. Bruce tightened his arms, unable to do anything more than hold him and whisper “I’m here, Tim, I’m here, I’m so sorry,” into the boy’s hair. 

As Bruce held Tim’s shaking body, held him steady and anchored him through the storm of grief, he watched Renee cross the room to talk to the social worker. The two women bend their heads together, and after a few minutes, Ms. Blake looked over to Bruce and nodded. By then Tim’s sobs have stopped. Bruce tilted his head down to check on the boy, and finds that he’s fallen asleep, exhausted by his tears and his emotions. Bruce looked back up and Ms. Blake walked across the room.

“You’re Bruce, right?” she asked in hushed tones. He nodded. “Well, Renee has explained everything to me, and I agree with her. You can take Tim home with you tonight, but I’ll need to make a house call tomorrow morning to sort out the paperwork and get everything settled officially.”

“Thank you,” Bruce responded quietly, deeply conscious of the child resting fitfully in his arms. “Do you need my address? I’m just down the road from here.”

“Yes, I need it for my records,” she responded, her eyes soft and sympathetic as she looked at Tim. Bruce gave her his address in tones barely above a whisper and waited for her to note it down. Then he escorted the police and the social workers out of the house, scooping up Tim’s keys from the tray in the foyer as he passed, locking the door behind him. 

He walked down the driveway, opened the Barracuda’s door, and gently placed Tim in the passenger seat. The car’s name failed to make him smile this time. He maneuvered Tim into his seatbelt, walked around the car, and got into his seat.

Then he leaned his head against the steering wheel, and grieved quietly. Not really for Jack and Janet, but for their son, who had loved them even as they left him behind, over and over and over. Now their son would be left behind once more, and this time they’d never come back to this house, never come back for him. But he wouldn’t be alone.

Bruce took a deep breath and sat back in his seat. Then he started the car, pulled out of the Drake’s driveway, and took Tim home.


End file.
